


not even the darkest depths of the abyss stop the heart from shining

by ardskelling



Series: The Tales of Twin Serpents [3]
Category: For Honor (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:14:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23659702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardskelling/pseuds/ardskelling
Summary: Hertha has a terrible dream, one that shakes her own beliefs.
Series: The Tales of Twin Serpents [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703539
Kudos: 3





	not even the darkest depths of the abyss stop the heart from shining

**Author's Note:**

> “At the seat of the soul, in the dark of the night, mine dreams reach not for the stars above, but only for thy unyielding love. Thine precious heart is needed, for even the distance between our souls in sleep is not enough to keep me from thee.”

The room is hazy, fogged with swirls of gloom, like it was a fleeting memory, never to be remembered. And for a moment, she thinks she would not remember it, without truly registering it as a dream. She feels lucid enough, yet it was like her vision was coated in the faintest of films, like the beginning of cataracts or like rousing oneself from the heavy spells of sleep. She is seated on the floor, tatami mats and reed fiber smooth and polished beneath her bare legs. Aiya always took care of her home, regardless of how small of a space she lived in. In her palm, between her fingers, rests a simple goblet, iron and carved with little symbols she did not care to read. The cup was full of an expensive and very red wine. She can taste it, the sweetest and almost sugariest drink she had ever had, as it passes over her tongue. Notes of citrus and the faint but unmistakable bitterness of fermented rice graces her throat as she swallows. It is soothing and warming, like a summer day spent among a bed of wild flowers, having the gentle feel of wind through hair. And she feels out of place, like she does not belong in such a pretty picture, the brutish appearance and burned skin upon her causing such a sensation. And Aiya’s house is not as she remembered, and it began to sink in that she was dreaming.

Her little woman is not there, not before her, drinking whatever that horrendous juice she calls wine is. She is not standing before her cooking pot, cooking up any supper, nor is she smoking that damned pipe she loves. In fact, the carved tool sits before her on the low table, and her vision is so clear that she could see the bite marks on the tip, the polished wood worn down from too much of her anxious chewing sessions. The house still smells faintly of tobacco, the smoke she tried so carefully to cover up with her perfumes and her incense. She knew full well what Aiya did with her time, how she loved to breathe in the ash from the pipe. Despite her attempts to hide the taste of ash on her tongue when they kiss, with all sorts of things like a sprig of mint or a cup of honeyed wine, Hertha knew. And she also knew exactly where it was hidden, in the second drawer of the nightstand, right next to their shared bed, hidden underneath various papers and scrolls. The light before her leaks through the paper walls of her home, separating their living area from the outside world. Anyone who did not live in their quiet village of Horishi would not understand why they did not need thick stone walls to protect them. They are not warmaking people, and the worst crime she had ever taken note of was a jealous ex-lover coming to yell at Aiya for moving on to a woman, and a  _ viking  _ woman of all things. And perhaps it was that peaceful and unassuming nature that caused their home to burn to the ground. No amount of kind words or monthly tributes of various foodstuffs would stop the onslaught of the Blackstone Legion, nor would it bring back the dead that were lost that night, when Apollyon brought the entirety of the Myre to its knees. 

And then, whatever reverie she had in that moment was broken. She was no longer in the home she shared with Aiya, because she wasn’t anywhere at all. There was a swelling blackness before her and she could not distinguish anything at all from the all consuming shadow that surrounded her. There was the smell of fire, of heated steel, of blood, flooding her senses with all sorts of horrific things. She could hardly see, yet looking down, she found the source of smell. Below her, there was a pool of red and it made her knees wet with the stuff. She was kneeling in the liquid, and her pants were soaked through with scarlet. Any other person would have thought they had tripped perhaps, and the substance was water. But Hertha knew better, she knew full well that the metallic tinge that tainted the air around her was blood and that her eyes did not play tricks on her with colours, because the body of Aiya lay right before her, bloodied. Her face caught in an eternal scream. But why was she screaming, if she was dead here before her? All colour drained from her face, and she realized that the screaming was coming from her.

Hertha woke with a start, forehead slick with sweat, and was immediately met with the stare of Aiya. Her eyes are shimmering, even there in the dark, and the obsidian irises of her love hold nothing but worry for the woman she looks down upon. She could feel some strands of her hair, plastered to the side of her pale cheek and Aiya gently brushes it from her eyes. The viking’s mouth hangs open, slack jawed because the scream she had been making died on her tongue as soon as she saw her lover, safe and unsullied with blood just above her. Aiya is not smiling, but there is relief there in her eyes, as if she was calmed because Hertha had awoken. Unable to contain it, the words of a very slurred and tired explanation tumble out of her and then they are silent, for the moment, until Aiya’s stare softens. She lovingly strokes her cheek, and when she spoke, her voice was the greatest thing Hertha ever heard.

“I’m right here for you, darling.” She whispered, her tone sweet and right and merciful. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her voice is soothing and gentle to hear, welcoming the kiss that the Nobushi placed on her lips, working softly over her mouth as her fingers traced gentle patterns along the bare expanse of skin not covered by a blanket. Her words from there on are decadent whispers and sweet nothings, that are lost soon after from the many kisses that ensued.


End file.
